It's all romanticism, nonsense, rottenness, art.

I only know that I feel tired, antiquated; I feel as though I had been living a long, long time.

Everyone needs help from everyone else.

Looking about me, listening and recalling what the day had been like, I suddenly felt a secret unease in my heart and raised my eyes to the sky, but even in the sky there seemed to be no tranquillity. Dotted with stars, it constantly quivered and danced and shivered.

That is what poetry can do. It speaks to us of what does not exist, which is not only better than what exists, but even more like the truth.

A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn't it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?

There are some moments in life, some feelings; one can only point to them and pass by.